Page 64 of The Misfit

I close my eyes, letting his voice wash over me. When did he start noticing these things? When did he start counting just to make me feel safe?

Then it’s both his voice and the soft heat of his breath on my cheek, then my neck, the slightest nibble of his teeth on my earlobe. I start to feel flush, and a warmth creeps over my cheeks. I exhale hard, the fog in my brain shifting, morphing into something I can actually handle, actually deal with. “What are you …?”

“Shhhh, Pantry Girl, I’m focusing.” His mouth traces across mine once, twice, three times, then he cups the back of my neck and kisses me like he’s trying to consume my soul. It’s enough to draw me out of my head and into my body. I give in to the kiss and fall into the wet, warm sweep of his lips against mine.

My core tightens, and my skin catches fire as his fingers dig into the hair at the nape of my neck and pull tight. Oh god. How can I feel his touch deep inside me? I moan into his mouth, and he matches it, giving as much as he can and taking the same. I grip the fabric of his shirt, wishing we were alone and back in his bedroom instead of on this bench in front of the coffee shop. And then, as fast as it starts, it ends. He breaks the kiss, and I find myself gasping, needing his lips on mine because they’re the only form of oxygen available.

“Salem?” His voice is rough, and the way he says my name, with so much uncertainty… it’s like he’s asking me a question without asking it.

“Stop.” I squeeze his hand. “Just don’t … don’t say anything else that will complicate things further.” He exhales slowly, and I feel him nod. We both know we’re past complicated, past fake, past whatever boundaries we set two months ago. But acknowledging it will mean facing truths that neither of us are truly ready for.

“Kiss me again,” I whisper.

He doesn’t ask questions, only kisses me again, this time nibbling my bottom lip with his teeth until I’m clenching my thighs tightly, needing more, wanting everything.

How does he do this? Each touch short-circuits my brain, turning the anxiety and fear off, so all I can think about is the sensation of him against me. When he breaks away this time, he presses his forehead into mine, and we’re both panting softly.

He continues to hold me, his body curled protectively around mine, pretending this is normal. Pretending his touch doesn’t set my skin on fire even through the gloves. Pretending this is still just an arrangement. Behind us is the coffee shop, and I count the bricks around the windows to slow my racing heartbeat.

“Twenty-five bricks per row,” I murmur.

“Times twelve rows,” he adds.

“Three hundred total.”

His lips quirk up. “Unless you count the half bricks at the ends.”

“Do you?” I ask, meaning so much more than bricks.

“Count the broken pieces?” His eyes meet mine, full of understanding. “Every single one.”

We stay there, kissing and occasionally counting, aware we’re avoiding bigger truths. Both of us aware that, at some point, we’ll have to face what this really is. What we really are. But for now, we keep pretending and telling ourselves we aren’t falling in love.

FIFTEEN

lee

The definitionof freedom can be many things to many people. For me, freedom smells like coffee and Thai takeout, not bourbon and old money. My new apartment isn’t much, nothing like Sterling Manor, but it’s mine. It’s amazing what a change in atmosphere can do to a person’s mood. Inside these walls are no judgmental portraits, no father’s disapproving sighs echoing down hallways, no mothers rearranging everything I own to be moresuitable.

Inside this place, I can be me, and that’s a freedom I’ve never truly experienced before.

I sprawl on my couch, counting the water stains on the ceiling just because I can. I could’ve rented out one of the apartments at Drew’s newly built complex, but I didn’t want to ask, nor did I want him to think I wanted a handout. Plus, this place makes me feel better—less like the famous playboy and more like a normal fucking guy.

Speaking of normal. I’m pretty sure Salem’s habits are becoming mine, but here, alone, I don’t mind. It’s weirdly soothing. Even when I don’t need to count or measure or sanitize for Salem’s sake, I still find myself doing it anyway because I’ve realized it settles me.

It helps to ground me and remind myself of who I am instead of who the world wants me to be. Choosing to forgo another round of counting tiles, I let my gaze travel around the room.

One, two, three spots that need fixing. Four boxes left to unpack. Five reasons I’m never going back to … My phone buzzes with an incoming call. I pick it up and stare at the screen. My Mother’s face fills it, her perfectly composed image somehow managing to look disappointed even in digital form.

Fuck.

“Mother.” I don’t answer until the third ring because I know it irritates her to wait.

“Darling.” Her voice drips honey-coated venom. “I trust you’re settling into your alternative living situation?”

I close my eyes, counting breaths like Salem taught me. “The apartment is fine.”

“Hmm.” The sound carries years of disapproval. “And your … relationship? The one that prompted this ill-advised move toward independence?”

---